


Thy corridors haunted still

by zinjadu



Series: Wed to Blight [30]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst and Feels, Broodmothers (Dragon Age), Confessions, Determined Alistair, Disasters, F/M, Female Friendship, First Kiss, Friendship, Gen, Love, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Morrigan, Trauma, Traumatized Tabris, Triggers, breaking up, train wreck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 08:21:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19225324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinjadu/pseuds/zinjadu
Summary: Out of the Deep Roads, Caitwyn Tabris is doing better at putting some things behind her.  Locking it back down.  She's better.  She is.  Or she at least seems well enough for Alistair to attempt to kiss her.It does not go well.Trigger Warning: Confession of sexual assault, trauma, and triggered memories.





	Thy corridors haunted still

The breeze off the water ruffled her severely short hair.  Caitwyn let her eyes go out of focus as she sat legs curled to her chest on a small rise overlooking Lake Calenhad.  Maethor sprawled next to her, his massive bulk warm against her hip, and he kept his head up alert for any possible danger. Or supper. She would have to go back soon, to make sure he was fed even though she had no appetite.  It was hard to disguise how little she was eating, but she couldn’t stand how some of the others treated her. Leliana especially with her more overt attempts at sympathy; it was like they all expected her to shatter when she could least afford to.

Control.  She needed to maintain control.

As she watched the light fade over the water, Maethor’s heavy head swung around with ears perked up.  Someone was approaching.  Not a stealthy step, but neither was it a heavy tread or a drunken stumble, accompanied by a spreading warmth across her back.  Alistair, then, and she turned her head as he crested the small hill, two bowls held carefully in his hands. Maethor, ever the opportunist, stood and circled about Alistair’s legs, canine hope in his eyes.

“Oi, this isn’t for you, and you know it,” Alistair said.  Maethor whined, stubby tail dipping down in disappointment.  Her dog then tried for Big Sad Doggy Eyes, but Alistair remained unmoved.

“Don’t even try that with me.  I’m on to you. Besides, this is for Cait.  You don’t want to eat _her_ dinner, do you?” he asked.  Maethor slunk down low and pressed himself back to Caitwyn’s side, the very model of canine loyalty.  Alistair squared his shoulders, as if he had just felled an enemy. “Hah, I thought not.”

“You brought supper?”  That seemed safe enough, in terms of conversation.  Supper, their next course of action, looking forward, instead of back.  That she could handle, that didn’t test her glass-delicate grip on keeping herself together.  Patting Maethor reassuringly, she uncurled her legs from her chest to sit up fully.

“Yes, but don’t worry, I didn’t make it.”  He held out the bowl for her to take, a half hopeful, half teasing grin on his face.  Careful of the heat of the bowl, she gingerly lifted the bowl in her hands and took an experimental sip.  Chicken and herbs and pepper—thank the Maker not more nug—and she thought this might be one of Wynne’s efforts.  Morrigan’s tended to be heavy on the mushrooms.

“Do you mind if I join you?”  It was clearly his intention to do so, yet he still asked.  Mouth was full of stew, she settled for nodding by way of reply.  He sat down, mindful of the nearly overflowing bowl of stew he had taken for himself.  Maethor sniffed at Alistair’s bowl, but Caitwyn distracted him with a bit of chicken from her portion which he promptly wolfed down.  Alistair, taking advantage of the Mabari’s distraction shifted the bowl to one hand and drew two spoons out of a pocket in his leather jerkin.

“Haha, spoons!  Very important, spoons,” he said sagely, brandishing the cutlery with gusto.  Delicately, she took one and a grin tugged at the corners of her lips.

“Thank you.”  Her voice was stronger every time she spoke, less and less ragged.  The smile that appeared on his face was bright, and the hearth-fire warmth of him bloomed across her Warden senses.  It was as if he were simply happy to be sitting next to her on a hill by the lake.  Well, sitting next to Maethor, who placed himself between them in the eternal hope of food from either of them.  This was better than it had been at first, when he had tried to keep close. Too close. Time and distance had let her slowly start to piece herself back together; his presence steady and solid rather than encroaching.

“Of course,” he said easily, tucking into his food.  Caitwyn ate slowly.  At least food had stopped tasting like bile.  Even her Warden-driven hunger had not been enough to make her eat all she should these past several days.  He drained the last of his portion of stew, and Caitwyn made herself eat the last pieces of chicken in her bowl.

“Hey, look at that, you’re eating again.”  His tone was light, but she heard the concern underneath his words.  The care that tested the limits of her control, her ability to keep herself together, intact, instead of crumbling.

“I have been eating,” she replied quickly, and he shot her a disbelieving look.  She was about to protest further, but Maethor sneezed, and Caitwyn could have sworn her dog was disagreeing with her.  Exhaling sharply, she spared a glare for the Mabari, who returned her gaze with perfect canine innocence. “Fine, I haven’t been eating.  Food… hasn’t seemed very appetizing lately.”

“Hm, can’t blame you.  I’m not much of a cook, so thank the Maker for Wynne right?”  His crooked smile and bouncing voice and the world shifted, just a little, back to something like normal.  Rather than trying to wrap her in blankets like he had at first, in soft words like she was fragile, he joked.  It startled an amused huff out of her. Not quite a laugh, nothing so unfettered as that, but it was the closest she had been to such in two spans.

“How do you do that?” she asked.  “Find a way to make me laugh and make everything seem… not so dark?”  His grin was immediate and without any reserve.

“Oh no, not going to give away that secret.  If you could cheer yourself up, where would that leave me?  No, I think it will have to remain a mystery,” he teased, eyes dancing with mirth in the dimming light.  She rolled her eyes, falling back into the easy, friendly pattern they had established months ago. That more than anything was a comfort, the hope that she could go back to how it had been before her old wounds had split open.

For long moments they sat in companionable quiet, the only sounds the quiet lapping of the water on the shore and Maethor grumbling as he shifted between them, searching for a more comfortable spot.  Then Alistair reached over the dog to lift her mostly empty bowl out of her hands, nesting it in his empty one.

“Anyway, I should get these back.”  He got his feet under him and stood, but before he could leave she raised a hand, forestalling him.

“You could stay, for a little while longer, if you want,” she invited, not wanting him to go, not just yet.  Because with him would go the lightness and the warmth, the easy banter, and she would lose a bulwark against her and her wounded thoughts.

“Of course,” he replied, sitting back down on the grassy hill.  “For as long as you’d like.”

Together, they watched as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, orange and red flags streaming into the blue-black night, and the first stars winked into sight overhead.

 

* * *

 

Nearly to Bann Loren’s lands, and Caitwyn almost felt like herself again.  The memory of the Deep Roads had not faded, but it no longer intruded on her waking mind, and Maethor’s comforting presence kept the worst edges off her dreams.  Camp routine had nearly returned to normal, the overt sympathy dying away as she resolutely soldiered on, making herself eat and recalling Morrigan’s words _it happened, but it is not all of you_.

This would be their last night by the lake before heading deeper into the Bannorn, and Caitwyn was doing her best to take advantage of the moment.  She slipped away after supper to watch the water as the light faded, Maethor at her side. Then, as had become his habit, Alistair found her. She smiled without prompting at hearing him approach.

“You’re getting better at cooking, you know,” she told him as he sat to join her.  “I think I actually recognized what was meat and what was vegetable tonight. I’m very proud.”

“Thank you, though I’m still not convinced it’s healthy, being able to tell what’s what in your food,” he countered wryly.  She chuckled, warmth spreading through her, covering over the broken, jagged parts of her until it was as if they hadn’t even been there in the first place.

“Now if we can just get you to believe in herbs and spices.”

“If it’s not salt, I don’t want to know about it.”  This tone was low and strident, but his smile belied the attempt at seriousness.  That crooked smile, the smile that made her stomach do a little flip once more. She patted Maethor to curtail her urge to fidget.  About to reply, to continue bantering like nothing had happened to her, Alistair took a breath, as if he were bracing himself, and spoke, “Thinking maybe we could take a bit of a walk tonight?  I know we’re always walking, but it might be nice?”

“Yes?”  Even though her rising voice made the word more question than answer, he stood and offered her his hand.  After a moment’s hesitation, she took it. Maethor, taking note of the activity, trotted down to the water and started exploring, sniffing at everything he could and going where his nose took him.  Alistair held onto her hand for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, and Caitwyn’s heart raced. Not the pleasant butterfly beat of before, but a wild, startled flutter. One that urged her to run.

 _Be alright, you have held his hand before, it is nothing new, you are alright_ , she told herself as she tamped down a flutter of panic and continued to hold his hand.  They walked to the water’s edge, Maethor headed down the shore at a good clip on the trail of something.  The sound of the water lapping at the shore and the rustling of dried leaves on the trees filled the space between them.  The chill breeze off the lake swirled about her, nipping at her exposed ears.  Her shiver drew Alistair’s away from whatever absent thoughts had occupied him.

“So all this time we've spent together.”  He took a slow, lazy step forward, drawing out his words instead of rushing through them as if he had already known what he wanted to say.  “You know: the tragedy, the brushes with death, the constant battles with the whole Blight looming over us... will you miss it once it's over?”

“It makes me tear up just thinking about it.”  She forced her tone to be light, jovial, like it should be, even as she strove to ignore the startled-deer tremble in her legs.

“Ha!  There’ll be no more running for our lives.  No more darkspawn, and no more camping in the middle of nowhere.  I know it might sound strange, considering we haven’t known each other for very long, but I’ve come to… care for you.  A great deal,” he told her, halting their progress along the shore and taking her other hand in his own. His hands were warm and strong, _safe, he’s safe_ , she reminded herself.  He waited for her to recover herself, hadn’t he?  She could do this.

“I think, maybe, it’s because we’ve gone through so much together.  I don’t know. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m fooling myself.  Am I? Fooling myself? Or do you think you might ever… feel the same way about me?” he asked, not shying or glancing away.  Instead, he simply bared his heart with the earnest hope that she would not spurn it.

“I think.”  She paused and took in the sight of their clasped hands, dark and pale together, like the moon above and the lake below.  Her legs trembled, but she made her voice steady. He hung on tenterhooks waiting for her to speak. She tried to order her thoughts, but they came in a jumble: _laughing in spite of herself, bleeding out but borne up by strong arms, a shield between her and danger, gentle eyes, gentle heart, gentle man, rare and beautiful in the darkness, safe, safe, safe_.

“I already do,” she said.  Hearing that he smiled like the rising sun, slow and brilliant.  A grin stretched curved along her own lips in response.  Encouraged, Alistair leaned in closer, letting go of her hands to cup her face, tilting it up. Her heart beat rapidly, and tentatively she pressed her hands to his chest, warm and solid.  They had been this close before, and what she had done once, she could do again; she did not have to be afraid.

“So I fooled you did I?  Good to know,” he said, voice a teasing rumble, and she stood on tiptoe to meet him halfway.  Their lips touched, and she inhaled sharply at the contact. The scent of him, sweat and leather and steel was in her nose, and he was so close, so close… _too close, leather and steel of the armsman uniforms, sour sweat and vile breath._  Alistair’s fingers lightly brushed her cheeks, but she felt something else, _hand around her throat, knee to her stomach, dirt in her hair, helpless, nothing, nothing, dirty, wrong, bad_.  Panic bubbled to the surface, breaking through the walls she had tried to put between her and her fears.  Breaking the kiss with a quick step back, Caitwyn froze like a frightened animal, staring at a bewildered and confused Alistair.

“Cait?” he implored, hand held out for her, if she could only take it.  Take it and tell him, but her throat closed up, and she danced backwards from him.   _Weak, broken, never was going to have this, never could have this._

“I… good night, Alistair,” she managed to say, and fled into the night, the echoes of her past ringing in her ears.

 

* * *

 

Alistair stood frozen as Caitwyn fled.  Fled from him.

Like she had been afraid.  Afraid of him.

“What did I do wrong?” he asked himself quietly, looking down at his outstretched hand.  It must have been him. Caitwyn was skittish and very much did not like surprises. He knew that.  Learned it the hard way.

The Deep Roads.  She had been sick, unwell, eaten alive by the knowledge of how there were so many darkspawn, of Broodmothers.  But out from under the ground, back among living, growing things and the placid waters of the lake, she had come back to herself.  He’d thought she’d come back to _him_.  

He thought he had been obvious about his intentions.  Going over the conversation in his mind, he tried to find the place where it had all gone wrong.  The kiss. She had seemed alright, a little nervous, but then _he_ had been nervous, because he’d wanted to kiss her for a very long time.  They almost _had_ kissed.  She’d been so close that night in Tapsters, the scent of lilacs filling his nose.

She had wanted to kiss him once.  He _knew_ it.  Had held his hand without making him think of a bird ready to take flight.  Had looked at him and _seen_ him, not past him, not through him, not with eyes turned into bright pinpoints of terror.  

Had the Deep Roads changed her that much?  That she didn’t want to kiss him at all? Worse.  Had he hurt her? There was too much he didn’t know.  The only thing he knew was that his breastbone ached like he’d been kicked in the chest.  Dragging his feet back to camp, he ran the conversation in his mind over and over again, trying to figure out what he had done wrong, and if it was something he could fix.

 

* * *

 

Caitwyn rounded the camp and made a bee-line for the off-set area where Morrigan set up.  When she emerged from the underbrush the witch jumped ever so slightly, and while another time it might have been funny Caitwyn didn’t feel very humorous at the moment.  Maethor padded past her to butt his head against Morrigan’s shoulder.

“My friend, what has happened?  Are we under attack?” Morrigan stood, fire springing to life at her fingertips.  Caitwyn silently shook her head and sank to the ground next to where Morrigan had been sitting.  The other woman sat down, their shoulders nearly touching, and Caitwyn ran a hand through her short curls her thoughts slow to come in order.

“No we aren’t under attack.  It’s me. I had a… I panicked.”  It was easy to talk to Morrigan. Morrigan _knew_ , knew had not turned her away.  But that didn’t stop her shallow breaths, or her hands clenching into fists as if she could hold herself together by sheer force of will rather than fall apart again.

“You panicked?  What precipitated that, if I might inquire?”  Morrigan arched a black brow at Caitwyn, and though her expression was distant, Caitwyn caught a flicker of concern in the other woman’s fire-lit yellow eyes.  Caitwyn breathed out slowly, gaze sliding away from her friend and to the fire. It danced and crackled in the night no longer attracting the bugs of summer, autumn having greeted them as they emerged from Orzammar.  She held her hands out to it, warming them. Her hands had been warmer, not long ago, Alistair’s hands holding her own, but that was not for her. Not that kind of warmth.

“Alistair kissed me.”  She strove to keep her voice even but was unable to disguise the quaver.  Unable to hide or cut away her weakness. “And I know what want to say, but please don’t.  He kissed me, and he was so close, and then it was like I was back _there_ all over again, those men closing in on me.  Like I was back in that alley being held down.  I could _feel_ it, Morrigan.  I swear to you, I could _smell_ them again, those men.”

She closed her eyes, shutting out the world, her teeth clenched together as she fought for control, fought to not fall apart again.  Maethor’s head burrowed under her arm to lay on her lap, and she wrapped her arms around his thick neck, as if his solid form could keep her from drowning in her memories again.

“And you came here,” Morrigan supplied, voice thoughtful.  Caitwyn nodded and took another breath. She opened her eyes once more; the world was still there, just as she had left it.  But it wasn’t the world that hurt. It was what was in her own mind, and there was no escaping that no matter how hard she tried to push it down, to lock it away.

“I need to be strong, Morrigan.  I can’t afford to panic and fall apart.  I need to be better. I can’t be… distracted,” she said, voice hard and brittle on the last word.  Morrigan inclined her head, understanding Caitwyn’s meaning. No more faltering steps with Alistair, no more moments of stolen laughter, no curling their fingers together at supper, no near-kisses in the dark, nothing but the task in front of her.

“I shall help you however I can in that endeavor.”  The offer made, Morrigan squared her shoulders as if she were a warrior to stand between Caitwyn and all that might move from her chosen course.

“For now, I’d like to sleep here, if you don’t mind.  Better to try to separate something things, right away.”  Her resolve coalesced with each moment. It would be better this way, a break, if an abrupt one, because if she tried to explain to _him_ , he’d say something sweet and gentle and kind, and she’d be in this position all over again.  No, for herself, she had to keep herself apart. He would get the idea eventually.

She never should have let it get this far in the first place anyway.

“A prudent course of action,” Morrigan said.  No further words needed, Caitwyn set up her own spot by the fire Maethor curling up to one side of her, Morrigan on her bedroll to the other.  She could handle one night on the ground, she hoped, because she could not face the main camp at the moment, where _he_ would be.  But her heart betrayed her, and as she tried to sleep her eyes welled with tears.  Pressing her face to Maethor’s side, she cried, and though her shoulders shook, she did not make a sound.

However, she thought she might have felt a hand, touch as light as a butterfly’s wing on her shoulder just before a wave of darkness overtook her.

 

* * *

 

“I have a question for you, my friend.”  

The Crow caught Alistair up as they left Bann Loren’s lands with the winter birds singing, the only ones left as the weather turned.  He didn’t much care for them, tweeting happily about. But he put that to the side in the hopes that Zevran’s question might be about something that would distract him from how everything had gone so wrong with Cait.

“What do you want to know?”  

“I cannot help but notice that you and Caitwyn are no longer, hm, spending much time together.  Has something happened?” Alistair glared at the elf, who quickly held up his hands and took half a step away, as if he were afraid Alistair were about to hit him.  Then he realized his fists were clenched, and he made himself shake out his hands.

“Sorry, didn’t mean… look, I don’t want to talk about it.  I made a mistake, and that’s that, apparently,” Alistair bit out.  The words were harsher than he wanted them to be, but it was like there was a hot iron in his chest searing him from the inside out.  Worse, he had no idea how to get rid of it. Resolutely, he shifted his gaze forward, which was a mistake. Caitwyn walked in the lead, Morrigan to her right.  She was always with Morrigan these days, and _that_ was another problem.  Sten followed to Caitwyn’s left, towering over her tiny form, but following her all the same.

It used to be him that close to her.  At least when she wasn’t ahead scouting.

“I had thought you had solved this particular quandary, so forgive me if I overstep, but have you tried talking to her?”

“Don’t think that’d be welcome.”  His tone was morose and there was no getting around it.  He gestured ahead of them, as if to demonstrate that even _approaching_ Cait would be problematic.  Then he heard a sigh from Leliana, who had been walking a pace ahead, eyes on the trees.  She looked at him over her shoulder, lips pursed in disapproval.

“You must fight for her, Alistair, if you truly care for her,” Leliana told him, as if it were that simple.  As if he could just slay some monster and rescue her like it was some kind of _story_ , but it wasn’t.  He had no idea what had happened.  Well, that wasn’t true. He had kissed her, and she had run away.  She had stayed away.

“Who do I fight, exactly, hm?” he shot back.  “It’s not like she’s chosen another person. She’s just chosen… not me.  Look, very well intentioned, thank you for the advice, but it’s not helpful, so can we please just move on?”  Leliana was on the verge of saying something else, but her eyes flickered to Zevran, and the elf shook his head.  They were at as much a loss as he was, and if _that_ was the case, then what hope did _he_ ever have of fixing this mess?

“Boy, you are an idiot.  All of you are,” Oghren rumbled, shaking his head as he caught them up.  “You fight for her, boy, even if she’s the one you’re fighting. Trust me, I’d know.  Either you’ll get through, or you won’t, but better than not fighting at all.” Then, because it was Oghren, the dwarf took a swig from his flask and picked up his pace, leaving them behind.

“Is it just me, or did the disgraced drunk give good advice?” Alistair asked.  Zevran and Leliana’s silent, astonished nods told him all he needed to know. Suddenly bolstered, he stood straighter, a course of action in front of him, even if he had no idea how to accomplish it or what he would say.  But he knew he’d fight for her, even if it meant fighting her, fighting past all her defenses, all the defenses he hadn’t dared approach for fear of losing the small portion she allowed him. Since he’d practically lost her already, there was no point in holding back now.

“You know, for once, your nosiness paid off.  Thank you, both,” Alistair said, putting an extra bit of cheerfulness in his tone, just for the expressions on their faces.

 

* * *

 

Caitwyn twisted the delicate thread using the jig to keep the feather straight, and with a loop and another knot it was attached.  Pulling on the feather lightly she tested the security of the fletching; it held. She set the arrow to her right and was about to start work on the next one when Maethor stood and bounded away from her into the dark.

“Hey boy.”  Alistair’s voice and warmth drifted through the night, and Caitwyn’s shoulders tensed.  Her gaze flickered up to Morrigan, and the witch was on her feet within moments striding to the edge of the circle of light from their fire.  Alistair met her there, and Caitwyn snuck a glance at him. The lines of his face were set, not in anger, but in something she hadn't seen since Ostagar.  Determination, a willingness to face down what was coming even if he didn't know what it was. 

“What are you doing here?” The woman’s voice was haughty and dripping with disdain.

“Not here to talk to you.  I would like to talk to Caitwyn.  I believe that’s _her_ decision to make, not yours,” Alistair shot back without hesitation.  Caitwyn focused on her arrows. Her arrows were simple, easy to understand, a task to be completed.

“I think you have done enough,” Morrigan spat, continuing to interpose herself between Caitwyn and Alistair’s line of sight.  At every word Caitwyn cringed, wanting to sink down into the earth like a dying leaf.  Become loam and blend into the background of the world.  Yet. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair to him. She knew that.  Knew that and tried to ignore him anyway; the coward’s way out.  She’d never been brave, though.  Just clever enough to avoid having to be.

“And what is it that you think I’ve done?” he asked, still not backing down.  Of all the times for Alistair to refuse to be moved, it had to be this. It had to be about her, about them.  Caitwyn’s breathing turned shallow, and she gripped her arrow so tight the skin of her knuckles turned pale. Morrigan, however, was not to be outdone, and she glared up at the man with teeth bared.

“You—”

“It’s alright, Morrigan,” Caitwyn interrupted, her voice barely above a whisper.  Morrigan heard it and spun on her heel to regard Caitwyn with piercing yellow eyes.  Caitwyn met Morrigan’s questioning gaze and dipped her head. It had to end. It had to be over.  Then he would know, and he would leave, and he would stop all this. Then she could focus on what could still be fixed, not what was broken before and would always be broken.

“Very well, if you are certain.”  Her friend raised her chin before turning back to Alistair to glare at the man, hard and bitter.  “If you hurt her, I will turn you into an insect and grind you under my heel.”

“If I hurt her, I’ll _let_ you,” he countered.  Morrigan sniffed in derision, but she strode past him, head high.  Maethor, his heavy head looking from person to person, finally settled on Caitwyn and tilted quizzically at her.  She made a shooing gesture and the dog trotted off after Morrigan. Then she ran out of plan.

The fire crackled, sending sparks up into the night, and the drying autumn leaves rustled overhead in a brief breeze that wound over the land.  Morrigan gone, Alistair's shoulders slumped forward, once again he was the uncertain boy that had taken step after tentative step towards her.  He toed at the ground, watching her like he was searching for something.  She held still under the scrutiny, but she could not hide the tension made her shoulders creep up to her ears.  Winding tighter and tighter, if she held any more in she might collapse into herself completely.

“I’ll go, if you want.”  The offer was genuine, and he took a half step back even though he had already fought past Morrigan to be here.  She shook her head and pried her fingers from the arrow she gripped as if it were a talisman and set it aside.

“No, stay,” she told him, voice thin and weak, but at least she managed to say something.  She gestured for him to sit across from her, on the other side of the fire. He did as directed and leaned forward, arms resting on his crossed legs.  Curling her hands around her knees she tried to find a place to start, but it was all a tangle like a mass of writhing snakes. All of it twisting and dangerous liable to turn on her at any moment to paralyze her all over again.

“I don’t,” she started to say, then swallowed heavily.  “I don’t know how to start, but I suppose you deserve to know.”

“Saying that you should start at the beginning isn’t helpful, is it?”  One corner of his mouth ticked upwards in a weak, half grin, though it didn’t reach his eyes.  Caitwyn’s lips stretched into a sickly smile in response, and she shook her head.

“Not really, no.”  She tried to catch one end of the story, one of the threads that could unravel everything and make it all make sense, a place that was reachable, less dangerous.  It was all dangerous, but she had to say it, had to get it out, get it over with. Then he would see what she was, what she had always been, and he would _go away_.  And it would be over.

“Do you know what mothers in the Alienage tell their daughters?” she asked.  He shook his head, and she huffed. “Not to trust human men. From when I was little, it was _don’t trust humans, and never their men_.  Mama cut my hair short all my life.  I’d see women come back from working at the estates, roughed up.  Their bellies would swell, and we’d hear the baby cry, but no baby come the morning.”  Her breathing became shallow again, and she stared into the fire, falling silent.

“Cait…” He breathed her name like a prayer and reached for her with all his gentleness.  But she didn’t want it. Couldn’t have it. It wasn’t for her. Gentle things had never been meant for her.

“I was thirteen.”  The words left her like jagged glass, cutting her breastbone, her lungs, her throat, her tongue, her lips.  Oozing agony followed in the wake.   _Hands scrabble in the dirt, trying to get away, glass cuts across her palms._ She forced herself to keep speaking, but it was like her mouth was tacky with phantom blood.  “Thirteen, and an idiot.  Picked his pocket, and he… he was only going to beat me, but I fought and made it worse and he… he _tried_ .”  Hot tears ran down her cheeks as the indelible words ran through her mind: _dirty, weak, wrong_.

“He tried,” she said again, and sucked in a lungful of air.  “And I killed him.” At that, at admitting her first murder, the rest of it broke free from her strained, frayed, crumbling control.  “I was careful after that, so careful, but they wouldn’t leave us alone. Why couldn’t they just leave us alone? No, they had to find ways to _play_ , didn’t they?”

A hiccoughing sob broke from her, and she lost the threads.  They squirmed and writhed, the memories, biting, stinging, in her blood like poison.  Eyes shut, trying to shut it out, to not have to see her own past, she flailed at ghosts.  Suddenly, Alistair's warmth was close, too close, and her eyes shot open.  Scrambling backwards, she fought to regain control of her rapid breathing.    His eyes were wide.  Wide and aching.  Aching for her.  She waited while he shuffled back to the other side of the fire, holding his hands where she could see them.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry, Cait,” he stammered, voice choked on tears.  Were those tears for her?  “Who? Who wouldn’t leave you alone?”

“Vaughan Kendells,” she snarled.  “Him and his… _friends_ .  They came into the Alienage, swaggering, threatening, and my cousin, my baby cousin, she cracked a pot over his head.  But it only made him angry. They came back, and they came back ready, took as many of us as they could carry away. I tried, oh Maker, _I tried,_ Shianni, I—he tried to _pay_ me for her.  I killed him, too.  I killed them _all_ ,” she hissed.   _Blood between her legs, the bastard’s smug face_.  Fingernails digging into her palms, she fought back the memories, fought to stay in the present, fought to not let it swallow her up again.  Dragging her tear-ravaged eyes back to his, the truth of her guilt was a brand that seared her flesh, as hot and cruel as the day she'd failed her cousin.

“Don’t you see?  I thought I was better, but I’ll never _be_ better.  I’m _broken_ , Alistair.  In the Deep Roads, with the Broodmother, it all came back up, all came back up, and it won’t go away.  It won’t go away. I tried to be better, to be _right_ , but… but…”  Her voice faltered at the last, and she held her head in her hands and wept ugly and hard.  She wept for Shianni, for the countless women tormented and twisted by the darkspawn, and for herself.  For all the broken girls that had been used.

“Caitwyn?”  Her name was a question on his lips, and she forced herself to look at him, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand.  There were tears in his eyes, too.  Tears he didn't dash away.  “You aren’t broken.”

“Yes, I am,” she insisted, clinging to that, clutching the appellation to her like a cherished heirloom.  Something that she had earned in a twisted, knotted kind of way.  “Do you think you know what it’s like? To be _nothing_ .  A _thing_ , a thing to _fuck_ , or worse, turned into… turned into… _one of them_ .  A vessel of _rot_ .  It breaks you, it eats at you, it’s eaten away at me until there’s nothing good _left_.  Just the dirty pieces.”

Alistair flinched at her vulgarity, but he endured her tirade with the patience of the ocean.  Neither of them able to speak, silence settled around them, and Caitwyn fought for the balance she had lost.  Fingers digging into the grass, she focused on the cool dirt under her nails, the soft blades of grass tickling her palms, and she regained control of her ragged breathing.

“Why are you still here?  Didn’t you hear anything I said?”  She searched his face for the disgust she thought would be there.  All she saw, however, was her pain reflected in his eyes.

“Every word, but nothing I heard made me want to leave.”  His voice was soft, entreating her with his gentleness. Scrubbing a hand over her face, she opened her mouth to speak, to tell him that he should go, that she wanted him to go, but the words weren’t there.   _Go_ , she wanted to scream at him.  But after cracking open the hurt at the heart of her, there was nothing left in her do to more than shake her head to deny the very idea that he could wish to stay near to her.

“You’re right, I don’t know what it’s like.”  He spoke slowly, carefully, choosing his words and placing them together like the pieces of a puzzle.  “I… I’m sorry, so sorry, Cait. It’s not ever going to be enough, but you didn’t do anything wrong. Andraste’s blood, I’d kill them all over again for you if that was possible.”  His vehemence startled her, and the twisted, tangled knot that sat, baleful and terrible, inside of her loosened.  Ever so slightly, it was easier to breathe.

“And I’m sorry that…” he continued, running a hand through his hair, fumbling at the words, but every word was one he _meant_.  “I’m sorry that I only thought about my inexperience, that I didn’t think about what you might have gone through. I’m an idiot for not realizing _something_ sooner, for… for pushing you like I did.  And… and I’d understand if you don’t want… if you want to not… well if you want to _not_ .  But if you _do_ , I’m not going anywhere.”

Caitwyn tried to form words, but she lacked the breath to speak.  He reached for her, not with his hands but with his heart.  He offered only what he had, himself, in the hope that it would be enough to fight past her hurt and fear to the part of her that was _her._ Scars and all.

“Do you mean that?  That you don’t want to leave?” she asked tentatively, these waters untried.  There was no charted course, no star to steer by, just the gulf between where they were and where they might be.

“I mean it.  I told you that I care for you, and that hasn’t changed.”  It struck her how he took a risk, too. How he had set aside his jokes, had let go of his uncertainty, and all but laid himself at her feet.  The choice was hers.

Gaze dropping to her hands she considered all she had done, all he now knew.  Before this moment he hadn’t really known her; she hadn’t let him see the whole of her.  The blood and the rot, the corruption and the heartache, all that stained her hands through the skin to the very bones of her.  But he did not see what she saw; in his eyes she was not a collection of broken apart pieces scattered on the cold, uncaring ground.  In his eyes she was a person, whole and precious and _good_.  

The choice was hers.  She could cling to what she knew, or she could leap.  She had leapt as a child across the gaps between houses, up brick walls, confident and light and free _knowing_ she could make it even without looking.  That confidence was so far away now, years and miles distant, but she remembered it, and an echo might be all she needed.

The choice was _hers_.

“I… I care for you, too.”  She spoke haltingly, but managed to meet his eyes once more.  A dark pulse, to flee, to hide, warred with the eased beating of her heart that told her to stay.  Her mouth moved soundlessly until she managed to say, “But I don’t know if I can give you what you want.”

“What I want?  I want to make you smile, make you laugh.  I used to do that pretty reliably for a while there,” he said softly, and she wondered how many times he said something _just_ to make her smile or laugh.  Had that really all been for her?  “What I really want is to _try_ , Cait, you and me, and… look, I know I’m not much, right?  But…” He trailed off, spreading his hands helplessly, as if he were a paltry offering but could do little to make himself any better.

“That’s not true, that you’re not much,” she said, voice quiet but insistent.  These waters were still new, still frightening, but she could do this. She could tell him true things, things she thought and felt, and this was a small thing beside what had come before.  “You… you’re more than enough.”

“I am?  Well, that’s… that’s good.”  A thoughtful huff escaped him as the idea took root, and he smiled, bringing a light and warmth all his own next to the fire that burned in the night.  A warmth that she might not have to deny.  A warmth that might be... hers?  For a long moment, they did not say anything, neither knowing what to say. Uncertain and unsure of so much, they looked to each other. Swallowing his nerves, Alistair braved the new course first, asking, “So… what happens next?”

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly.  It was like standing on the edge of a cliff, come to the end, the limit of where she could go.  But she was not alone, if she ever had been, finally daring to see beyond her scars to what was already there.  Her smile, weak and wan, gained strength, and she drew the words out, words that followed this new heading. “But, if you thought we were going slowly _before…_ ”

“Slow is fine,” he said, stepping into the trail of her words.  “What matters is that you’re alright, so what you say goes.”

“I’m not very good at saying, but… I’ll try,” she promised.  However, her thoughts ticked over already: how to say, what to say, when to say, if she could even manage it when so much still made her freeze or flee.  Or worse, lash out.

“All you can do.  But I should probably go.  Probably had enough of me, I’m sure.  Unless… unless you want me to stay a bit longer?” he asked, a cautious hope in the lines of face.

“I think I’d like you to stay,” she said slowly, but then dashed his hopes, like a skiff on a rocky shore.  “But Morrigan will probably be coming back soon.”

“Hm, yes.  Should be going, then.”  His tone turned witheringly dry, and Caitwyn wondered how she cared so much for two people who couldn’t stand each other.  Then again, she had seen it in the Alienage, those who got along for the sake of another. She supposed that would have to be that.  He stood, dusting off his breaches and working his shoulders as his eyes cast about as if he searched for a better way to part. She didn’t want him to leave, not yet, not quite like this. She, too, cast about for a reason to speak to him a bit longer, or better yet a reason to talk to him tomorrow.  Then she caught sight of her bow and quiver, ready for the next day’s forays.

“Alistair.”  At his name his gaze settled on her, but it didn’t make her want to cringe away like a beaten dog anymore.  His gentle yet unserious eyes dislodged something sharp and cold from behind her breastbone, and the sheer relief of it was enough to make her cry.  She’d cried enough for the night, so instead she sat up straight and aimed to sound more decisive than she felt. “Maybe tomorrow you should come with me when I go scouting.”

“Don’t you need to be, you know, sneaky?”  He raised a skeptical eyebrow at her, the teasing tone creeping back into his voice.  “Which I am not.”

“No.”  She raised her chin wrapping the mantle of de facto leader about herself, even though she was sure by now he could see past it, or at least knew it wasn’t the icy wall it appeared to be.  “But we’re heading further south, closer to the horde, and I might need sturdier back up.”

“Ah, of course.”  He ducked his head, but his smirk gave away that he had her measure now.  Had it and would not lose sight of it. Then, voice laced with tenderness, he told her, “At your word, then.”

Caitwyn did not know what she had done in her life to earn a promise such as that, but she would treasure it.  He sketched a half-bow, a silly yet heartfelt gesture, and he turned, leaving her sitting next to the fire. She watched his retreating form, heart fluttering, before setting about tidying up the little off-set camp, as if by organizing the camp she could also organize her thoughts.

It couldn’t be that simple, could it?  As simple as _telling_ him, as simple as him _knowing_?  How could such a small thing change so much?

Maethor, however, interrupted her ruminations, bodily running into her and nuzzling her hand to demand pats.  His eager greeting made her laugh, which prompted a happy bark from him as he capered about. She had not played with him in some time, as she recalled.  Not since the Deep Roads, not since she had tried to close off the parts of her that felt anything at all. Alas, it was a bit late to play fetch, so she hoped he would settle for a good scratch behind the ears.

Grinning as Maethor groaned in canine appreciation and leaned his heavy body into her hand, Caitwyn saw Morrigan staring down at her with arms crossed over her chest, cat’s eyes boring into her.  Morrigan’s disapproval was in the downturn of her lips, and the arch of her brow.

“So, ‘tis back to the main camp for you, then.”  The cool distance in Morrigan’s tones was belied by a glimmer of concern in the golden glint of the other woman’s eyes.

“Actually, I’d like to stay with you a little longer, if it’s not too much of a bother.”  She patted Maethor’s back as he settled down next to her, his massive head a comforting weight on her lap.  “Only for a couple of days.”

“Whatever for?” Kneeling to tend the fire, Morrigan broke kindling with more force than strictly necessary.  “You surely no longer have a need for refuge from Alistair’s advances, if they are once again welcome.”

There was a bitter twist to her words, and Caitwyn’s head jerked up, unable to hide her shock at the other woman’s tone.  At least she managed to recover before Morrigan could notice. It almost sounded as if Morrigan was _jealous_ .  Not of any romantic inclinations but time and attention.  More pieces about her friend fell into place. Morrigan was a woman who had grown up alone, her only regular contact with another person a mother who turned out to want to steal her body.  A woman who didn’t know what it was to have a family or friends, who didn’t know how to _share_ , a woman who _disdained_ sharing.  So different from how Caitwyn had grown up, sharing the last portion of bread with Shianni, splitting a winter-withered apple with Soris, several children to a room when firewood was scarce and families had to pool resources.

“I’ve liked staying with you.  I knew it couldn’t last, even if Alistair and I hadn’t just… reconciled, I suppose.  I know you like your privacy, but I am grateful. You were there, you knew, and you didn’t flinch.”  Caitwyn watched Morrigan discreetly as she picked her way through what Caitwyn had said, and what she had not.  That night in the Deep Roads, when it had all spilled over, when Morrigan had borne her up and bolstered her when she had needed it most, what it meant that Morrigan had not left a hint as to what she had witnessed.  Caitwyn appreciated the need to survive as much as Morrigan did, but Caitwyn knew something that her friend did not: no one could survive _alone_.

Though it was still a wonder to Caitwyn that she had found people who she could count on outside the Alienage, it must be harder still for Morrigan, who had not counted on anyone for anything before.  Then Morrigan considered Caitwyn from underneath her brows, a sardonic quirk to her lips.

“Of course not.  Some things must be met head on,” Morrigan pronounced, and Caitwyn thought that might be more true than her friend knew.


End file.
